


The flower shop

by BlazeRiddle



Category: No Fandom
Genre: I'm so sorry, THIS IS SO CRACK, please don't arrest me or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="https://twitter.com/lennionx/status/684485187321880578">I'm doing requests on Twitter and this happened.</a> I'm so sorry for all this. So, so sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The flower shop

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Ugh.

I hate my life.

My alarm goes at six in the morning on Saturdays, and when it goes, I need to jump out of my bed and straight into action. I roll out of bed, and if I roll far enough, I roll straight into my kitchen. I start up the coffee machine, since it takes an eternity to get going, and move to the only other room in the apartment to take a shower. After, I make my breakfast and lunch from the cheapest food available, pack everything up and run the few streets to my job.

Not exactly the American dream, is it?

When I came here to go to college, I was expecting something like the movies: a nice, big house, or maybe a studio apartment or something, a place in the college football team, or the boxing team or the wrestling team, one of those nice jackets and a nice girlfriend, maybe.

Or a boyfriend, I'm not picky.

Instead, I live in a shitty, one-room apartment, work my ass off five days a week to get through my classes, and work the sixth day to be able to eat. I didn't even make the boxing team.

Worst of all is: I work in a _flower shop_.

It was the only job available, and I need the money, but I really, _really_ , don't like it. My boss is a wuss, I smell like a perfume shop after every shift, and my perfect side-job is tormenting me from across the street. Just across those four lanes of asphalt, there's the most badass kind of shop: A tattoo shop. The artists that work there all come in at seven, and they're all equally badass: pierced brows, ears, lips, noses, tattoos in their necks and all over their arms, hair painted in all colors of the rainbow... they really are awesome, and I wish I were one of them.

Well, all of them, except one. There's one guy, this tall, black guy that always comes in five minutes late and looks more like someone who works in a bookstore or a _flower shop_ instead of a tattoo parlor. From what I've seen, he only has one tattoo on his lower arm, and it's a small, brightly colored eagle. Freedom to all, I guess. He must like his job, even if he doesn't look the part. Maybe he's a really good artist. Maybe he's just the receptionist.

For now, though, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that that dork is there, living the dream, and I'm stuck here watching him every week. Stuck in a flowery hell while I watch life pass by.

Like today.

It's around noon and I stand behind my counter, bored, when the bell at the door rings to signal someone coming in. I look up, bracing myself for another boring conversation on boring flowers.

It's _him._

"H-hi- Hey." He says, sounding slightly unsure. I quirk my brow at him.

"Hey. How can I help you?"

The guy frowns."Eh. Right. Ehm... Help me?"

I sigh, and gesture around me. "Welcome to the flower shop." I state, tonelessly. "How can I help you? Do you need something?"

"Oh!" He seems to blush. Dork. "Oh, ehm... one of my co-workers broke her legs, so we wanted to, you know, buy her some flowers... just to be kind."

I roll my eyes. The fucker's shy, apparently. I move around the counter and to the flowers. "What did you have in mind?"

"Eh..." he scratches his head, his tattoo showing. On closer inspection, it was an eagle splattered with brightly colored paint, or something. "Something... flowery? I was hoping... you... could help..."

"Girls usually like roses." I take a white one and show him. "White and yellow are a safe bet, I guess."

"What about red?" He asked, his cheeks coloring even more. I shrug.

"Red's more if you want to take someone out." I smirk at him and he gets even redder.

"White it is, then."

I make a bouquet for him and take it to the counter to pay.

"Thank you." He says, looking at me cautiously. I roll my eyes at him.

"Vlad." I introduce myself.

"Vlad." He repeats, smiling shyly. "I'm Barack."

He takes the flowers and leaves the shop. I watch him leave, staring at his behind.

Something tells me I'll stop by at the tattoo shop soon....

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of international security, this is where the story stops. Happy now?


End file.
